The Tomato, the Time and the Tube

A ripe tomato wobbles on my plate – I pierce it
with a fork, it sprays my eye so I smear
the rest of the mess around, covering the plate
in gunk and seeds, like a greasy, pimply
face – the wrinkled red peel seems to moan like a mouth.

They put up the clocks at my workplace today,
one each for five different time-zones –
I look up from the shimmering spreadsheet
to their white faces, yet to be set – their tick-tock
means nothing, the office hums, someone sneezes (very small or far away),
God bless them, the hands move, a phone rings.

Bodies surround me, I half close my eyes,
inhale the heat and let the rattling send me into bellies
and rosy breasts, then clutch tight to the pink pole
which vibrates in my hand, smile at a stranger’s pale face
feel the closeness of hot skin, the murmur and breathing of women.